A short walk away from our Air BnB, a narrow path led to a bridle path led to a branch of the South West Coastal Path, a beautifully maintained walking route skirting the Cornish cliffs. Because I'm an idiot, I trusted Paul's city boy map reading skills: 'It's just a three-mile walk to this cute little pub in Zennor. Let's go! You won't need your boot boots. Those synthetic leather shoes will be just fine.' And so we packed our gear: food for Frank; a large Dairy Milk bar; a bottle of water. We left the map, we left everything else. Lunch at the pub after a 5k walk, what could be better?
Admittedly, it was a beautiful walk. The path wound around the cliff edges displaying jagged rocks and punishing waves below. Seals took refuge in little hidden coves and the sky extended for ages in front of us. We ran into a handful of people along the first couple of miles. Families eating sandwiches decked out in hiking gear. Hardy couples adorned in waterproofs. Retired couples with big dogs carrying sticks the whole way. We city folk continued on in our jeans and lightweight jumpers, Frankelton enjoying every step of the way.
Three miles in, we stopped for a chocolate break and began to wonder where this cute little Zennor pub might be.
Four miles in, we reached a sunken field of mud abutting a private field protected by a barbed wire fence. Again, I heeded Paul's savvy outdoor knowledge: 'You go first, Jen. Just hop light-footed over that little section on the side.' Yeah.
No. Frank fared slightly better.
At this point, the penny finally dropped for both of us. I stopped listening to Paul and Paul stopped giving 'nature' advice. We paused, ate most of the rest of the chocolate and considered bedding down for the night right on the side of the cliff.
At four point five miles in, we passed a family, the mother who assessed walking trips for the Duke of Edinburgh Award (for the American audience, a school award programme that's somewhat similar to the Scouts). She looked on at our antics horrified. You have no map? You don't know what direction to go in? You might die out here. She forced us to take a photo of her little map, pointed us in the forward direction and shook her head disapprovingly as we walked away. We could feel her reproachful words hitting the back of our heads as the wind whipped up. Fortunately, the views continued to remain beautiful despite the clouds that continued to roll in.
Upon passing this post (above), we took the sign as a sign to eat the remainder of our chocolate. What, in the event that face-forward cliff falling happened, chocolate seemed a fitting final memory.
The chocolate must have fortified us because finally, five hours after we started and six miles later, we started seeing signs of civilisation. A path cut down into a village and we spied the spire of a church. Almost immediately adjacent, the Tinners Arms, a 700-year-old pub stood ready and waiting for weary walkers to take refuge.
And refuge we took. With only chocolate as fortification, we were ready to eat our arms and looked forward to a hearty pub lunch. Unfortunately, because of seasonal winter hours, the pub stopped serving lunch at 3pm. We had to settle for bar snacks and Groelsh until the kitchen started serving dinner at 6pm. That, or take the bus back into St. Ives. Only in off season, the last bus to St. Ives departs at 3:30pm.
Three beers later, we were a bit squiffy and had given up on the kitchen ever opening. The transformative powers of Hanger. But the pub started to fill up with a pre-wedding wedding party ready for one night of country drinking before the festivities; and that made the ambience just a little bit magical. And so we had one of those quintessentially you're not in London anymore moments. The ones that involve Scrabble and fireplaces and peanuts and spicy rice crackers by the mugful.
Dinner, when it eventually arrived, was something suitably gastronomical and not the traditional meal we were expecting. Still delicious. And once we'd staved off hanger, had a sit and Frank a nap, the journey home began. Considering the darkness and the distance, we opted for the non-cliffside version and ordered a taxi back. It must have been the only taxi in town because it took 45-minutes to arrive. £30, a discuss about Arsenal football and a considerable wait later, we were back.
Which is where I could check the reality of Paul's map reading skills. That reality: the walk from St Ives centre to Zennor Head is listed as an 8-mile hike. A fairly gruelling one. Which is why you should not let your London 4 Life boyfriend use his sausagey fingers to measure the distance of a squiggly line on a map. You've heard it from me.
And Frank. Because he got a bath out of the deal. Turns out when your legs are six inches from the ground, the dirt finds ways onto the entirety of your under rumpus.
